


With the Furies Breathing Down Your Neck

by Siobhan_Schuyler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-20
Updated: 2006-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siobhan_Schuyler/pseuds/Siobhan_Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven't been outside in two days, haven't looked away from the television set in over twelve hours. Every channel has pre-empted their programming to show non-stop looping news footage that's no longer news to anyone. Bombs, half a dozen of them, so destructive the best visuals were from satellite; news anchors trying for grave but only managing despaired. No footage of survivors or witnesses because there aren't any.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the Furies Breathing Down Your Neck

They haven't been outside in two days, haven't looked away from the television set in over twelve hours. Every channel has pre-empted their programming to show non-stop looping news footage that's no longer news to anyone. Bombs, half a dozen of them, so destructive the best visuals were from satellite; news anchors trying for grave but only managing despaired. No footage of survivors or witnesses because there aren't any.

"What now?" Sam asks numbly, and he feels like he's six again, watching Dad stumble back home bloody and slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. "Dean, what now?"

Across the space between the beds, Dean doesn't answer right away, unable to tear his eyes from the flashing pictures on the screen. The news montage stutters then starts over and Dean, stunned, finally looks over at Sam, looking as helpless as Sam feels. "Ah. I don't know, Sammy."

They watch the rotation of images three more times before Dean finally gets up, shuffling towards the door barefoot, in last week's jeans and yesterday's t-shirt. Sam shields his eyes against the bright July daylight when Dean pulls open the door; it swings easy on rusty hinges, like the world outside of it isn't ending, like its apocalypse wasn't man-made, like he and Dean and Dad haven't spent all they had saving it from villains which were, in the end, not the real enemy.

Sam joins Dean on the stoop, squinting at the parking lot and the pines lining it. Three days ago, the pavement was hot enough to fry eggs; three days ago, Sam could smell the scent of the trees (like the inside of a new car, only sappier and tacky) at night through the hot breeze wafting in through the motel room window. Now, their slice of small-town landscape is blinding in its plush whiteness, and the branches of the evergreens are bending under the weight of snow come too soon, too suddenly.

The breeze, now, makes their breaths cloud before their mouths, but Sam's shudder has nothing to do with cold or fear or the orange tint of the sky above the peaks of the trees, like dawn on a postcard. It's three in the afternoon and Sam can't stop shivering.

"What now?" he asks again, his fingers curling in the hem of Dean's worn t-shirt, damp where Dean's back was pressed to the plywood headboard.

"Now we have ourselves a vacation." Dean tries for a smile, and almost gets there. But his eyes never meet Sam's.


End file.
